


Draconis Affectionitis

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dragons, M/M, Magical Ink, Magical Tattoo, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's tattoo takes a shine to Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draconis Affectionitis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterstorrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstorrm/gifts).



> This is a holiday gift ficlet written for winterstorrm based on the prompt that has now become the summary. Happy holidays, hon!
> 
> As always, JK Rowling owns the boys and the world of Harry Potter. I just like to play with them.

It wasn’t the man who caught Draco’s attention, it was his shoulder.

Admittedly, it was a nice broad shoulder attached to a well-muscled back that tapered down into a perfect waist and a fine arse. But it was, still, just the shoulder of a remarkably fit man, and those were certainly plentiful in the gay pubs of Muggle London.

The problem was, the shoulder wasn’t entirely bare.

It was shirtless indeed, as most of the men in the pub happened to be by this hour of the night. Draco had shed his own silk shirt hours before, and his body shone with a faint sheen of sweat from dancing. 

The shoulder was also inked.

And as Draco watched, the dragon slithered closer to him, its tongue flicking out as if tasting the air. And for all he knew, it might be doing exactly that.

The dragon had been lying curled against the bloke’s shoulder blade when Draco sat down on the stool at the bar. The bloke was well-involved in a conversation facing away from Draco, and it let him look for a moment at the ink. He appreciated the dark lines and the bright, vivid colours. Draco had always enjoyed artistic representations of dragons, and this one surprised him with the particular colour palette. It reminded him more of a phoenix, the way the tail moved and swayed, catching flames as it tickled the bloke’s spine.

Draco blinked. This particular bloke was a wizard, and his ink, rather than lying quiescently against his skin, had begun to slither and slink, watching Draco in return.

He ought to mention it, he supposed, before anyone else happened to notice and wasn’t quite drunk enough to dismiss it as a bit of blurred vision fooling the mind. He reached out, fingers hovering just over the bloke’s shoulder, hesitating.

After all, Draco came to these particular pubs to _escape_ the Wizarding world. He came to be anonymous. To be just another fit bent face amongst the crowds. If he were to catch this bloke’s attention his ability to be nameless tonight would end.

Something flicked against his fingers; Draco jerked his hand away.

The little dragon’s tongue tasted the air above the bloke’s shoulder. It crawled over the shoulder to his arm, clearly following Draco’s hand as he laid it upon the bar. A moment later and the dragon was twisted around the bloke’s forearm, one claw reaching out to touch Draco’s finger.

A fresh pint was set in front of Draco, and he glanced up to find the man behind the bar staring curiously at the dragon, now flat once more against the skin of the bloke’s forearm. Draco smiled slightly and overtipped to send him away.

He had to say something. These people would not easily forget something so unusual as a mobile tattoo.

Draco let his fingers rest upon the back of the stranger’s hand, a light touch of pale fingertips against inked skin. “Excuse me,” he murmured.

“Yes?”

Of all people it could possibly be, Draco did not expect the shock of seeing messy black hair and green eyes framed in black lenses. He did not expect to see the faint reminder of a lightning bolt scar, nor the dawning recognition that furrowed Potter’s brow sharply.

“Malfoy?” Potter glared. “If you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Your tattoo.” It was all Draco could manage to say, as the situation had somehow gotten _worse_.

The dragon lay across both their hands, claws wrapped around Draco’s thin wrist, the tail spiraling up Potter’s arm. Draco felt the flick of the tongue as the dragon tasted his scent, felt the rough scrape as it burrowed closer to him, nuzzling him almost like a cat might.

Potter’s gaze dropped to follow where Draco looked, and Draco held back a strangled laugh when Potter’s eyes widened at the sight. “That’s not possible…”

“I must disagree,” Draco murmured. “It may not be probable, nor expected, but it is apparently quite possible. Your tattoo appears to…”

“…Like you,” Potter finished the sentence, something odd and unreadable in his expression. “It seems we’re entangled.”

“This isn’t the place for this, Potter.” Draco remembered now why this was important, and he kept his voice low. “Someone might notice that things aren’t entirely as they ought to be. And even the vaunted Potter name is unlikely to remain unpunished for a flagrant display of magic within a Muggle location.”

Potter tugged, but the dragon dug its claws into Draco’s wrist until he winced. “Not a good idea, Potter,” he murmured, jaw tight.

“Then there’s only one thing for it.” Potter twisted his hand beneath Draco’s, winding their fingers together as he pulled him closer. 

Draco had only a moment to prepare before Potter’s mouth covered his in a drunken sloppy kiss, far sloppier than he expected given Potter’s apparent current sobriety. As Potter rose awkwardly from his stool, Draco re-evaluated that thought, watching the other man wobble slightly on his feet.

But the hand that caught his was solid and warm, and squeezed slightly.

A ruse, Draco realized. It was entirely a ruse, because of course, two drunk men hand in hand, leaning on each other as Potter now did to him, was nothing unusual. 

“This definitely isn’t the place for this.” Potter’s voice was a little too loud as he pulled Draco in for another sloppy kiss. “Let’s step aside for a bit of privacy.”

Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to answer, but he allowed himself to be led away. It occurred to him, as others watched their passage, what a pretty sight they must present. Potter’s skin was darker than Draco’s, tanned and fit. Their hair complemented each other, dark matched with light. They had always been two sides of the same coin. Draco wondered just how same that coin had become.

Potter didn’t say a word when they stepped out into the night. The air was warm, but compared to the inside of the club it was cool on Draco’s skin. Potter tugged their clasped hands, and Draco stepped closer, back stiff when Harry touched his hip.

“Potter—” Draco was interrupted by the distinct sensation of having himself turned inside out through his navel. An _unpleasant_ sensation after the heat and the alcohol, and he fought the way the room swayed as they stepped into the light and heat of an unfamiliar kitchen.

“The cooling charms keep failing,” Potter apologized.

“You brought me to your home.” Draco twisted to look at the place, noting the old architecture mixed with fresh white paint. “How lovely. Now, convince your ink to let me be, and I’ll be off right away.”

“Are you sure it’s that simple?” Potter slid his hand up Draco’s arm, the ink slithering along with the movement until the dragon curled about Draco’s shoulder, tail still twisted about Potter’s wrist. “Where I move, it moves. We seem caught, Malfoy. Perhaps we ought to make the best of it.”

Heat coiled in Draco’s gut, warmth that twisted into his chest and sped his heart. “What makes you think anything might be considered best with _you_ , Potter.” He tried to snarl, the words tighter than he intended.

“You were looking to pull,” Potter murmured, leaning in until his breath huffed against Draco’s neck. “I was looking to pull and almost had someone, then you caught the eye of my ink. I think you owe me something.”

Claws slid into Draco’s shoulder, echoing the lighter feel of Potter’s fingers on his neck. Then Potter’s mouth was on  his again, and everything else was forgotten.

The ink slid over skin as they kissed, slipping over Draco’s shoulder and slithering down his back, nose huffing small puffs of warmth as it found a space on his bum and curled there. “We’re unhooked,” he murmured as soon as the kiss broke. “I think your dragon has decided upon a new home, at least temporarily.”

Potter’s hand skimmed over Draco’s back as well, sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers until the dragon nipped at his fingertips. “There’s a story behind that ink.” His lips moved over Draco’s shoulder, whisper soft as he spoke. “The wizard who embedded it into my skin was named Camelon, and it was said that he gave prophecy in his art. I didn’t know what the picture would be until it was created, nor did I have any chance to choose it.”

“Why did you have him ink your skin?” Draco’s mind was soft around the edges, hazy and floating as Potter kissed him. There must have been potions on his lips, potent drugs that stole Draco’s mental facilities. There was no other explanation.

“I was tired,” Potter murmured. “I was tired of never knowing. Of wanting, but never being wanted, not for myself. I was tired of not being able to tell when someone spoke the truth, or whether they simply wanted the legend. The fame.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.” Draco’s breath hitched when Potter found just the right spot at his throat. He felt the dragon slither up his spine, teasing at his shoulder, claws stroking where Potter’s fingertips held him firmly.

Potter sighed. “I asked him to give me a tattoo that would help me find someone.” His lips pressed to the hollow of Draco’s throat and he inhaled roughly. “He gave me a dragon and told me that when it meant something, I’d know.”

That dragon nipped Draco before it moved, sliding over Potter’s fingers to his hand, coiling up his arm and disappearing from view behind his shoulder. Draco knew what he’d see if Potter turned, how that dragon would be coiled, smoke puffing from its nostrils. Thinking about that let him assimilate what Potter had said.

What those words meant.

He huffed softly. “You have always thought Divination was a load of gryphon dung.”

“Some prophecies are true,” Potter said solemnly. “And some seers are the real thing. Besides…” Potter drew back to meet Draco’s gaze. “What have you got to lose by seeing what happens? At the very least, I can promise you brilliant sex.”

One eyebrow arched as Draco gave him a look. “You have a high opinion of yourself, Potter,” he said dryly.

“I’m the saviour of the Wizarding world,” Potter said. “My ego knows no bounds. I also happen to give a brilliant blow job.”

That eyebrow slid higher as Draco smirked. “Prove it.”

As Potter fell to his knees, face nuzzling the front of Draco’s trousers, Draco’s gaze caught the dragon. It looked at him and blinked lazily, huffing a small puff of smoke before it curled catlike and made itself comfortable on Potter’s skin.

It may have been the ink that first claimed Draco’s curiosity, but as Potter opened his trousers and mouth met flesh, it was the man who caught him instead. Draco’s fingers tangled in thick, dark hair, and it was Potter himself who held Draco’s attention.

All thanks to his tattoo.


End file.
